on being twenty-four.

sometimes i say that i feel old.
that i feel old with a tired that sinks deep down into my bones.
and people sometimes scoff at that--
you're only twenty-four! they say.
(up until yesterday, they would say just twenty-three.)
well, yes. yes i am.
that's still so young! they say.
well, yes. yes it is, i suppose. relatively speaking.
but different kinds of years have different miles in them.
and the old i feel is an old in my bones.
and there have been so many miles in almost all of my years.
because life in every essence has seeped deep into my bones.
ninety-three million miles. many the miles on my heartsoul.

that's what people keep saying when remarking on my birthday.
just look at all you've done and all the places you've gone in so few years! they say.
and they're right.
there's been so many miles in my twenty-four years of preferred-bare-feet.

i don't write as much as i should.
you don't have to write anything at all if you don't want. they say.
but i do, you see. it's not about want.
there's this place down in my heartsoul that tells me when and what to write.

i'm always a little bit saddened to see my may depart--
like unto the atmosphere that follows the day after christmas as the season transitions.
but i am always consoled by the fact that june is arriving.
i do love the months of march practically all the way through august.
but especially may and june--those two have my heart.

i wonder what it would be like to live in a world where it was always june.
(l. m. montgomery)

i have a hard time pulling things all together lately.
there are so many pieces of so many different thoughts without a home,
and so they sway through the winds of my mind.
because the reasons i write are twofold:
one. because of that place down in my heartsoul that brings the words to me.
two. because by the means of writing, i come to better understand.
not only understand, but bring order to all the different kites in the wind.
and i haven't been writing lately.
this year, i haven't really been writing.
sometimes the words come, but not in place where i can give them space.
or they come in place where i can give them space, but i can't figure out which place to give them.
so i only write snippets in weird places--
the borders of pages intended for notes in classes, planners, emails--
i write different pieces in weird places, and it never comes together.
i don't write as much as i should.

i'm at a transitionary stage. limbo.
#byugrad, you know?
if you asked me to paint a picture of what birthday will look like one year from now,
i couldn't.
i can hardly fathom--aside from knowing i'll be in my third semester and i'll be living in slc.
but those are only borders of a vignette, not a real picture.
and initially i'd think that maybe 2035 or 2055 would be easier for seeing a potential portrait,
but if i've learned nothing else in this year,
(and all twenty-four, for that matter.)
it's that absolutely nothing is predictable.
even that which seems predictable,
will always wear a somewhat different face than expected.
because that's what life is:
living one solitary day at a time and passing through life as it comes.
some days are beautiful, others are measly. completely crummy, even.
but those days are your life.
they make you to be who you are.

when people ask your age, they're looking for your chronological age:
the number of times you've traveled around the sun.
as if that tells them anything at all about what happened on your earth at any given moment of orbit.
i've seen some things in my twenty-four years that some people never see in their entire lives.
for that, i'm both grateful and dismayed.
because i've seen into the brightest glories of the heavens,
but also peeked into the deepest abysses of hell.
i haven't seen everything, though.
there are experiences i've had that others never will, yes.
but there are experiences others have had that i never will.

despite the universality of the human experience,
there's something both beautiful and slightly terrifying about the uniqueness of each human.
because no human experience is ever duplicated.
there are always differences.
of every human soul who has ever lived,
each has a different definition of what it is to be alive.
to each their very own existence.
and isn't there something overwhelmingly beautiful in that?

i'm twenty-four.
it feels old.
life is rarely easy.
but that's not what we signed up for, is it?
sometimes there are a lot more sad and uncertain days than joyful and secure halespaydays.
but i wouldn't trade a single one of my days.
because they are mine.
and while my life doesn't look on my twenty-fourth birthday like i once thought it would,
i've given up on painting portraits of life before it happens.
presentness, as tolstoy tutors.
cross the bridge when it comes and build a bridge over troubled waters.
it won't all go the way it should.
but we must always remember:
fear is a friend who's misunderstood.
and to come to understand your fears
(a lifelong process, i think.)
is to understand who you are,
even if it means having your heart thrown to the ground a few times.
in the end, this above all is what we are being taught:
the heart of life is good.
this i know.

and as i said yesterday, it really is a beautiful life.

because god is good.

he is oh, so good.

song of the day: the heart of life, john mayer.

in the sea.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)

it's always ourselves we find in the sea 

ee cummings.

i saw the sea of galilee for the first time one month ago today.
in the evening after dinner we took a walk down the road along the shoreline.
i was most contented there and in jerusalem's city.
for whatever i may have lost--like a you or a me.
on this sea i was found.
- - - - - - -

on the first sabbath in israel, we ditched our group to do our own thing.  

and the first order of business, was going to the branch. 

shabbat shalom.

the galilean branch--that building that looks out over the sea of galilee. 

the branch. that alone.
there were around 20 people in sacrament meeting.

5 of whom were us. 

- - - - - - -
on the way there, i walked with mike and mindee. 

we might have gotten lostish. 

because the road wound up and up and up. 

the name kept changing, but not into the one we were looking for. 

as the road curved over and back towards the sea after going up for so long, 
we curved over.

mike knew the branch looked out onto galilee,

so we turned down a road that turned back towards the direction of galilee. 

- - - - - - -
across the street on this little road, going the way opposite was a couple. 
in their 60s or 70s. 

a couple with that lilt in their speech,

the lilt in the way they walked,
the way their hands moved as they talked. 

and i just knew. 

my finely honed sense was right. 

миша and his wife. 

a ded and baba from ukraine. 

odessa, to be exact. 

ukraine. 
i just knew.

- - - - - - -
missions never truly end. 

i said the road name and as they tried to respond something in hebrew,

he said something to her in russian.

and at first i wasn't conscious. 

i just knew i understood what he was saying to her.

and we found the common language of us all.
this is their seventeenth year here. 

these two beautiful humans from ukraine. 

leading us along.

these people. 

russian. 

speaking russian as i walked down the street with them. 
as if i was still walking down the streets of ukraine.

they thought i was from ukraine. 

(the women from moscow the day before told me i looked it.)

- - - - - - -
we never would have found the branch without meeting this couple. 

maybe we would. 

but they were there for me. 

so that i may take the streets and be among the people. 

my russian.  

without that, i wouldn't be able to know them. 

what a privilege.  

and this. well, this is why missions never truly end. 

because of this ability to connect. 

because of the enlarged world i have been endowed with. 

missions perpetuate themselves. 
they teach us who we are.

- - - - - - -

whenever i am lost,
with russian 
(and russians by the sea of galilee)
i am always found.
- - - - - - -
count your many blessings, we sang in the branch that day. 

сочти благословения. 

сочту.

их много. 

because. 

jesus is everywhere. 

he is on the streets inside these people. 

inside of them, inside of me, inside of the connection we made. 

God is awake. 

late: of grief and loss.

(this is one of those things that i started writing two months ago. literally.
it was the sixth of march when i first began trying to put my words together.

one of those things that has been in process for even longer than that.

and it hasn't been time yet. it hasn't created a circle yet. until now.)

it was a sunday evening in january.
late into sunday evening.
late into january.

my phone started to ring, and up came a photo of my mother.
earlier that evening it had struck me that i hadn't talked to her in quite some time.
maybe i should probably call her?
but i didn't.
i was exhausted. swamped.
january, you see. especially this january. this late january.
mothers always know, though.
therefore. here we are: phone ringing.
i made my way outside--six roommates plus a small apartment, you know?
and it was cold. really cold, albeit an unseasonably warm january overall.
a snowless winter evening late in january.
i paced outside our door, in the midst of the four apartments that share our third floor.
eventually i sat on the top of the chilled steps.

and in this place i stayed for the next 90 minutes.

- - -

i've been on a grief kick this semester.
probably because of my senior seminar in which we're reading various plays by chekhov.
i'm not sure who's more to blame--my professor or chekhov.
probably both.
suffice it to say, i've been on a grief kick this semester.

near the beginning of the semester, meg sent me an article she found in the nytimes about getting grief right. i adored it, and sent it to my professor who very much liked it too because it described quite well some themes we'd already discussed in chekhov's plays. i referenced the idea a little bit here, but it comes down to the fact that there is no real script for grief. every grief wears a different face, though there are similar patterns to be seen. similar classifications that can be made, yes. but even then. it's a spectrum. furthermore, there are some things that you may never get over, because it's just that significant. we as people so easily get impatient with those who are mourning, not knowing how to react, and after a certain allotted time, expect them to just get over it. as if with a flip of a switch, it ends. but. it's never so simple. though you move forward, that grief is always present. even if it is replaced by something later, there's still always a space where that mourning once was. mentally, you can go back to that place, either voluntarily or involuntarily. that's the thing about the human experience: these pieces of our stories are always a part of us. because it isn't just about loss. even an absence can be a presence. and that's what chekhov explores: loss and grief. more specifically, how people are defined by or define themselves by the losses they experience. not only losses, but also lacks--those things they feel they're being denied. because of the absence being an overwhelming presence.

- - -

Nature’s first green is gold, 

Her hardest hue to hold. 

Her early leaf’s a flower; 

But only so an hour. 

Then leaf subsides to leaf. 

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

Nothing Gold Can Stay, Robert Frost

- - -

january is always a hard month for me, though i'm fully aware that most of it is mental. but this january turned to be especially rough. however. not because of anything definable. that was the problem. there was just this certain kind of emptiness. a space--but nothing was filling it. and yet, i had no time or place for anything to fit. no wiggle room whatsoever. nevertheless, there was an emptiness in my soul, like a space had been carved out and left there. a space without space for space. it's just as illogical as it sounds.

i knew there were absences present in my life. january was an enormously lonely month for me. despite enormously busy schedules for everyone, there were a few main people that had played a part in my life and in keeping me sane during fall semester. even if that meant a short excursion on an evening walk, going together to neighboring cubicles in the library and returning home late together, or a five minute debriefing before collapsing at the end of the night. in january, though, all those things ceased to be a part of my routine. they were gone. and because these past two semesters were defined by constant drowning, there was no wiggle room for anything else or other people. i had no room for seeking out anything outside of that which was already taking place. there were those i crossed paths with in my daily routines, and there was very little time for things outside of that, especially in the month of january. but in january, those people that had at least crossed through more frequently, were gone. and i was left alone. everything stripped down to only that which was most essential.

it wasn't supposed to be like this. that was the hardest part. that was the fate i mourned to my mother on that late sunday evening. this semester wasn't supposed to be like this. it was supposed to be easier. i was supposed to be able to breathe in my last semester as i neared the finish, especially once grad apps were in. it wasn't supposed to be like this. i wasn't supposed to get even less sleep this semester than last--which is in itself an impressive feat. i wake up almost every day before everyone else in my apartment, and often am gone still before any arise. i stay at the library or am up reading until midnight, and go home to more reading. where i used to at least have time for little things at work when i first started and it was slow, i've had none whatsoever in these months. it wasn't supposed to be like this. because it wasn't. i legitimately thought my last semester would be simpler than the one preceding it. last fall was awful. it was chaos and long hours every single week that never really calmed down until the semester ended completely. drowning. and i expected the next semester--my last semester--to be simpler. more concise. not so insane and scattered. being able to breathe. to sleep. to be. but late in january is when this discrepancy between expected and actual caught up with me. disappointment.

- - -

colm toibin wrote an article on the literature of grief--a recommendation my professor made on one of the first days of class. a description of what we don't always fully realize--none of us really know how to respond to those mourning. not really. because there is no one correct answer. and there is no one correct response. and sometimes. a lack of feeling is in itself feeling. as toibin says about his own loss, What is strange is that I have no memory of feeling anything; there was no drama, no obvious grief, just a blankness. and so it goes.

furthermore. when authors write of grief--when anyone writes of grief--it always comes from real experience. yes, novels may have fabricated details. but the sensation itself--streams from the original sea of grief.

- - -

while i suppose you could say january--and by extension, this last semester as a whole--was more concise and not so scattered in subject matter, there most certainly was no breathing, sleeping, or being. not much of it, anyway. just. blankness. surviving. some days, only by a hair, but surviving nonetheless. and learning how to drown without drowning. after january, learning how to get by and find mini pieces of sanity-keeping along the way. 

do you think you're grieving? i think maybe you're grieving. that was my mother's suggestion. a well-intentioned attempt at getting to the roots of my frustrations. but what could i possibly be grieving? my people were not gone, they just no longer played the direct role for a time that they once did. a change. temporary shifts. i hadn't suffered any losses. what could i possibly be grieving?

i never became fully rested again after my mission. when i came home from ukraine, i was completely exhausted. deflated. and the transition time was minimal, which meant going straight into extra-busyness. (what i naively thought would be the busiest semester aside from maybe fall '14. joke's on me.) the summer helped, i relaxed. but never enough. never really truly resting. gre and classes and work only allow for so much wiggle room. and then january came in all her fury, and i was pummeled. a weariness that sank into my bones.

i think maybe you're mourning the loss of the time you thought you'd have.
lost, without ever even having it.
the loss of expectation--what you expected to be.
and there it is. weird as it sounds, in the past four months, i've gone through cycles of a grieving process. because. it wasn't supposed to be like this. and my heartsoul grieved that, even when i myself didn't fully see all that i had accumulated in the way of what i legitimately thought i saw my story would be. not even foolishly unreasonable thoughts. just. these pieces that come in the course of living. and most of all. because. this isn't a thing like i thought the story of my life was going to be. where does life get off, not following the perfectlymadeplans i had?

not only that, but time specifically. silly as it may sound, having time to sit in the sunshine and just be is an important part of my revitalization process when life is crushing me, even if its only for a short time. that is my sanity-keeper. being able to sit in a sunbeam for a minute. sitting to the side of a cafe or any place just people watching. and all through january, i didn't do one bit of that. i couldn't let myself enjoy anything, because how do you enjoy anything else when you're drowning? but to survive. i had to come up for air. soak in the world by choice, rather than drowning with lack of those things that make me human. at the very least, give myself a minute for admiring the rays of light bending through the water that was swallowing me. (also. yes. i have a probablyunhealthy reliance upon all things light-related. take that for what you will. if you come to the bottom of that, you'll come to the depths of my psyche as a whole.)

- - -

i'm reading the year of magical thinking, by joan didion right now. (yet another recommendation thrown out in class by this same professor.) and aside from the fact that i think the writing style is refreshing in its incredible honesty, it is overall a beautiful chronicle of her grieving process. and the way. it just seemed so logical, her entire thought process. that year of magical thinking. and she makes a solid argument for the fact that so many are hesitant to admit: there are some people or things in life so significant, that maybe we never truly get over them. it's not just a night of grieving that ends and never returns. why is that so hard to admit, when i would venture that it's something that resonates powerfully with a majority of people?

the most important aspect of these experiences most significant that are lacking or lost? that's okay. it's okay if you're still sometimes affected when thinking of those you've loved and lost. it's okay if you're still sometimes affected by lacks of experience or opportunity. it's okay if you're still sometimes affected by what you never had. it's okay if you're still sometimes affected by a lack that has since been filled. regardless of when that originally took place. maybe it was last week, maybe it was fifteen years ago. does it really matter? when it's something truly significant--something that has left its mark on your soul, some days it's going to feel like it was just yesterday, whether it actually was yesterday, or instead there's an indeterminate number of yesterdays that rest between you and the event itself-or lack thereof.

- - -

because of what i've seen in chekhov's works, i've been so much more aware of my own impatience with those who are grieving--an impatience ingrained in me. because there is this assumption in society, especially in western culture, that after a certain point in time, you should move on, regardless of the grief. just get over it. but it's never so simple as that. in turn, that awareness has given me increased patience and empathy. an enlarged understanding of what it really means to grieve. and therefore, finding that sometimes the answer is whatever gets you through the day. day after day, letting yourself spend fifteen minutes when the sun is out in february and shouldn't be before returning to everything else. letting yourself take part of a day for being with people and soaking them in. because somehow, someway. it all always works out and it all gets done. if it doesn't? well, you're still breathing aren't you? the sun still comes up. let it go. let yourself be exactly as you are--let yourself feel exactly as you feel, whatever that may look like.

maybe one of the most important things i've learned about grief, loss, and mourning, is that it's never too late to learn. there have been very few deaths of close relatives in my family during my lifetimes, and therefore i'm not well acquainted with the topic of grief and loss. but these months have showed me that grief isn't reserved for physical death of loved ones. it also includes that which you never had: something that will never be yours or something that may be in the future, but isn't yet. that's still a loss to be mourned. grief includes experience as well as people. it includes roles played in your life, regardless of the specific figures who play those roles. the presence leading to loss or complete absence thereof. these all dip their hand in the basin of grief, to say nothing of mourning that which could have been, but will never be--be they experiences, relationships, or the attainment of goals. i'm not saying all hope is lost and if you didn't accomplish something once you're doomed to never do so, but disappointment dips its hand in too.

- - -

most of all: grief is everywhere and is evaded by no man. no one ever escapes mourning, loss, or tragedy of some sort. no one. there isn't a monopoly on grief--reserved only for the most profound and most visible suffering, tragedy, or loss. the seemingly smallest of grief follows a similar pattern as the largest, for they are of the same blood. objectively speaking, i always knew this. we all have our trials, hardships, tribulations. however you want to phrase it, no one passes through mortal life unscathed. but i'd never attributed grief to anything but death.

until now.

israel fully deserves its claim on the title of the holy land, but the most incredibly interesting part of my experience there wasn't the places themselves, but the people within them. in being pulled out of my world, i saw people from every sort of place brought together. a random sampling, if you will. people who all had a mark of grief somewhere on their souls. all of them. i didn't always know what it was, especially not at first. but even from those in our touring group alone, if i gave it enough time and truly listened and gathered pieces of their souls, there was always something.

- - -

what i'm saying is. though i'm late to come to fuller understanding of this. maybe there is no late. because. from an eternal perspective, nothing is ever lost. so maybe loss and grief aren't so much about what we've lost and are mourning, but instead what the loss or absence creates inside out souls by nature of its presence. the change that comes in our hearts and souls because of what we experience and the way our souls are carved out and made more whole. the experiences that teach us a little bit (or a lot) more about what it truly means to be human. 

i love me some armknechts.

it's no secret that i'm a little bit (read: a lot) in love with megan beth. 

- - -

two of her sisters returned from missions in the past couple of weeks,

so i went to their combined homecoming today.

why?

honestly, i think sistersarah and sisterkaty were wondering the same thing. 

but meg wasn't.

afterwards, i met a friend of her mom's from college who had come to town for the occasion.

oh, you came just for this? --meg's shocked reaction upon learning what really brought her there.

what can i say? i love me some armknechts. 

and, you know. i really couldn't have said it better:

i love me some armknechts.

   i met meg on october 4, 2012. you don't easily forget the day you enter a country that's about to be your home for many months. and, transfer day is thursday. как раз, the thursday after arriving in ukraine is the day we met. because megan beth. well, i only knew her as sister armknecht. sister arm, when trying to make it easier on ukrainians who just really, really couldn't pronounce her german фамилия (family name). (let's be real, if they struggled with nevers, they're really going to struggle with armknecht. i think we had already been companions for weeks and already become bffs before i even knew how to correctly spell her name in english without asking her.)

   our time together was golden, and that area sacred ground. it was only later that we truly realized the depth of miracles we'd experienced together. the people of ours from that time--they're among the people who stand out the most from our entire missions. our sasha--who was more for her. tomara--who was more for me. iraida. sveta. and perhaps the greatest miracle of all: our friendship. because. had we met at any other time, in any other place, i'm not so sure we would have been friends. in fact, i almost guarantee it. but. at that time. in that place. we were primed to see and be. and since that time, the love has only grown.

   i mentioned our notes a couple of days ago. but. i didn't mention the extent to which those notes were so often a lifeline. glimmers of sparkle in darkness, if only for a moment. answers to prayer, or sometimes even just a reminder of that which is good and our own role within that. and some days--one especially, those notes were pieces of salvation.

   meg is one of those people who leads you to jesus just by who she is. because to come to know her, is to come to know him. i realized recently that i've been surrounded in the past few years with people who are just so good at that--at making god a part of every change and uncertainty, because he is their foundation. and meg was one of the starts of me starting to consciously see that. because she just knows him and loves him and is good to her very core. she'd do anything for god. in fact, she does. and you know what? her sisters are filled with that pure goodness too. and so is evan. and so are her parents. it's an armknecht thing, i've come to see. a perfect blend of spunk and poetry. each in their own way.

   megs and i, we have one of the most special relationships i've ever known. and. i treasure it deep inside as one of the most precious parts of my soul. because she is a part of my soul. i just didn't realize it before october 2012. but. an inseparable part of my soul. she is the moon and i am the sun. one without the other is useless.

   she's going to oxford this fall. oxford! and. something about that is starting to sink in these days. something about israel was a foretaste of a cross-the-globe relationship. and then sitting in the midst of her family today, it hit me again how precious all things armknecht are to me.

   her sisters. watching her sisters, i could see pieces of her. seeing the pure goodness that surrounded me in her cousins, aunts, and children of cousins--in addition to her own immediate family--well it did make me to almost cry today. because that is why we do all the things we do. that is why we live the lives that we live, serve the missions we serve, and strive the way we strive: in order to attain daily families like these.

   and that? well, that's something i can get behind. and that is what makes life most precious. having people like megan beth armknecht sailing through life with you. ahoy. be mine? maybe i can sell you with the transcript of one of our signature i like you poems.

i like you.

i like you more than i like anna akhmatova.

i like you more than i like dr.purves.

i like you more than i like russian lit.

i like you more than i like the whole russian department.

i like you more than i like fudgyrichperfectbrownies.

i like you more than i like hearing aids.

i like you more than i like literacy.

i like you more than i like the moon AND the sun.

i like you.

- - -

i like you more than sundeee walks. 

i like you more than spring. 

i like you more than twinkle lights, 

for all the light you bring.

i like you.

(because if you know me. you know.

for me to like anyone more than these things--

that's a whole lot of like.

more than like.

даже love.)

i love you, megan beth.

believing, if only for its sake.

this one's for the lonely,
the ones that seek and find
only to be let down time after time.
this one's for the torn down,
the experts at the fall.
come on friends, get up now.
you're not alone at all.
this one's for the faithless,
the ones that are surprised
they're only where they are now,
regardless of their fight.
this one's for believing, if only for its sake.
come on friends get up now, love is to be made.
this is for the ones who stand.
for the ones who try again.
it comes and goes in waves.

--comes and goes, greg laswell.

   with an imperceptible and sudden transition, all that once was ceased to be. all the drowning in books, papers, and classes came to an abrupt halt, and the very next second i moved out completely and found myself on the way to israel for the next twelve days--all while most everyone else i knew walked across a stage and listened to a commencement speaker marking the significance of this event in their lives.

   i'm grateful for israel. not only because i adore traveling, but also because it gave a transition to transitioning--a slight distraction. for better or for worse, because life still always catches up, even though it takes your soul a few weeks to catch up when you move--it always does. personally, though. i prefer that way. the transition to a transition. being pulled outside. relearning how to breathe from outside my own world. figuring out anew this thing called air. and now, the air is almost suffocating. for i had learned to live without it--to be drowning without drowning.

   my language certificate came in the mail the other day. my degree has officially posted to my byu transcript--degrees awarded april 2015: BS. major: communication disorders. additional major: russian. then a memorandum area with my russian proficiency. 9 semesters, 3 terms, and an international internship later (plus a mission in between). that's what comes of it. that, and acceptances into grad schools that are conditional upon completing the degree. this is college--the university experience. college is over.

   i remarked at a gathering with friends the other day (friends who one month ago i could have called roommates. #we'reindenial), i don't feel old enough to be saying things that happened in college as a past tense. because i don't, even though all indicators point to being more than ready to be done and move forward. a few months ago when asked for something i was hoping for at the time, my answer was simple. i still have the sticky note inside the case that covers my phone with my doodle of a kite, tree, and sun to the side of it: change and moving forward. (grad admissions.) but mostly. moving forward. because while change is scary, lack of change is straight up terrifying. and these past months until now have been acutely defined by an overall lack of change. that's what happens at the end of something--when one thing is ending, and the others haven't quite begun yet. and at that time, especially, i hadn't yet heard back from any of the schools i'd applied to, despite being surrounded by others receiving admissions offers and declaring decisions. and there's nothing more terrifying than the prospect of being left a fool.

   the month of march will always be a favorite of mine. right behind may, perhaps even surpassing june. march seventh and sixteenth and twenty-third, to be most specific. though the whole month is quite fine. because those are days that mean something. days of pivotal moments. moments that adjust the tracks toward where the train of life is going as it moves forward.

   i still haven't written about march sixteenth and all that it means. i still haven't written about grief and loss and all that i learned and how much it infiltrated and informed this past semester. (blame chekhov, blame dr. purves. i'm not sure who's more to blame.) i still haven't written about the holy land, and what i found that phrase to truly mean. i still haven't written about writing itself--why we write. i still haven't written about that magic atmosphere that surrounds foreign languages and the doors and windows it opens. i still haven't written about lessons learned from contacting and the crossover into real life. are you catching on? these are just some of the things i've intentions to write. but i just don't quite have words.

   there are (at least) three russian authors who had time periods in which they stopped writing. they just. stopped. couldn't. поэтому, перестали писать. and. that's the zone i've been living in. because in the midst of fighting, there's no room for processing. and now here i am. with what seems to be nothing but time. but my words--my words come slow.
   while i was in israel, i had nothing but time to think. there were other things going on, of course. but nothing so engaging as to distract from thinking. in fact, most experiences seemed to encourage thinking. and with all left unprocessed from my mission onwards, i began slowly to piece things apart from these past three years, but then began overloading with any new things that came. i'm not sure how much i really took in, given the timing of going and all in my life yet to be sorted through and made sense of. in being on the other side of the globe, though, i was in a position of complete and total presentness. day to day, i didn't know what we'd be doing until the day of. i didn't make any decisions. i didn't do much of anything, it seems. i think everyone in our group in israel was unsure of what to make of me and my strange state of being--the pure exhaustion, constant writing of notes and musings in my journal-just streams of consciousness, endless thinking, and suddenly getting more sleep than i had in months. i woke up often before six in the morning, and would sit on hotel room floors, looking out to sunrises over the sea of galilee or listening to the morning call to prayer in jerusalem. (plus a number of later-mentioned emails exchanged with jilly or megs.) i hardly knew my own name or who i was supposed to be, because there's no script for settings like that.
   i love israel. i think everyone should go to israel. but in the timing of when i went to israel, i never had time to fully process that i was there until i was actually there, and even more so now that i'm home. the places we went, the things we talked of. some were meaningful in the moment, but the places themselves are more meaningful in retrospect than they could ever be at the present. because i hit overload. because i stopped taking things in. i was just.there. and with such a saturation of things left unresolved, more often than you'd think, i didn't really think about much of anything. maybe that's why i wrote streams of what i heard or thought so frequently, because i myself didn't take it in--it bypassed me and went straight to pen and paper taking it in for me instead.
   because i was in israel, i didn't begin to evaluate anything about what had occurred in my life in america until returning. with graduating, i never had a ceremony to bring closure and mark the end. i was just.gone. i think everyone else went through the adjustment and grieving process, and i was two weeks behind. it seems silly, you may say, to call it a grieving process. but. i don't think it's in the slightest bit silly. because, with such an abrupt change and moving forward like completely finishing college, there is a loss. there comes an absence of something that was once a very large part of your life. for a very long time, it was a very large part of your life, the people included. and then. it's just.done. you no longer live with those whom you've grown so accustomed to. you no longer have the same routine. you're not going back next semester. because. you're done. it's gone. and we are moving on.
   change and moving forward. but mostly. moving forward. that's what i hoped for, isn't it? and here it is. but just like anything. the process of moving forward has a few kicks from the exhaust pipe as it gets going to wherever it's going--as it makes its way into a new rhythm. and the reality of those kicks didn't start coming until now: three weeks late to the party.
   graduating feels kind of like finishing a mission. it's as if you've been shoved into a cannon, and then spit out in some given direction. but when you're flying through the air in a given direction, you're not always so sure of what direction that is, because there's a whole lot of spinning that accompanies the flying. you're shoved out of everything that was once your own life and left flying through the air to deal with it. there are things that ease the fall, but a fall is still a fall. you're moving forward, moving on. everyone is. in different directions. and while life really is moving, sometimes it's hard to be sure that it's moving in ways that are actually desirable.
   i haven't written so vulnerably in quite some time. funny, considering that the importance of vulnerability has been at the forefront of so many conversations as of late, especially in these past five months. maybe it's a little bit because i haven't written much recently--in the past nine months especially. and maybe because there are some topics that i've realized i'm hardly ever vulnerable about. because it's too risky. and because. i hold sacred that interior zone where half-formed thoughts and delicate emotions can grow and evolve, without being exposed to the harsh glare of public judgment. (from this op-ed piece by david brooks written for the nytimes. i'm a real big fan of david brooks's writing.) and maybe because, vulnerability should always reign in interpersonal relationships and communication with those whom we love, not necessarily in a public domain. heaven knows, my cluttered inbox is filled with emails exchanged primarily with jillian and meg, filled with insights and discussions as we go about navigating this thing called life. (and really, some of those emails are gold and probably should be published somewhere. but alas.)
   what i'm saying is, i'm not really sure quite where i am or where i'm going. the long term is there, of course. but defining what it means for me to be a human that isn't a student and is as-of-yet unmarried--well that's the golden question. in high school and as i entered college, i was all about that student life. but then i went to romania, and realized that i'm much more suited to actually doing things than to sitting in a classroom discussing it all. and then i went to ukraine. and that tendency became even more pronounced. i can do it. i did do it. the reading, discussing, writing essays, philosophizing. not only that, but i did it in russian. and yet. as valuable as those experiences were in the pursuit of more fully understanding this human experience, what good is that knowledge if it isn't put to use somewhere? and, when it really comes down to it, both the humanities and definitive parts of my soul must have place to reign.
   because this is why we live. this is why we spend all those hours and semesters and years reading and studying. we do it for the people our lives are filled with. in order to go forth to serve. and my branch of service--well, that is why #emily'sgoingtogradschool. and when it comes to being there, succeeding there, and everything else about life outside of that, well, that's where believing comes in. getting up and standing. because, everything related to any kind of love in our life--it's something we make. we actively take part in creating the lives that we lead. stand and try again, because it comes and goes in waves. come on, friends. love is to be made.

(the night we left israel, on the way to the airport there was a full moon.^^ and because it was a full moon, we experienced the somewhat-rare phenomenon of watching this full moon rise as the sun was still setting on the other side of the sky. it seemed such a symbol: sun and moon, day and night. this is where they meet.)

no waters can swallow.

Master, the tempest is raging!
the billows are tossing high!
the sky is o'ershadowed with blackness.
no shelter or help is nigh.
carest thou not that we perish?
how canst thou lie asleep
when each moment so madly is threat'ning
a grave in the angry deep?
- - - - - - -
Master, with anguish of spirit
i bow in my grief today.
the depths of my sad heart are troubled.
oh, waken and save, i pray!
torrents of sin and of anguish
sweep o'er my sinking soul,
and i perish! i perish! dear Master.
oh, hasten and take control!
- - - - - - -
Master, the terror is over.
the elements sweetly rest.
earth's sun in the calm lake is mirrored,
and heaven's within my breast.
linger, o blessed Redeemer!
leave me alone no more,
and with joy i shall make the blest harbor
and rest on the blissful shore.
- - - - - - -
the winds and the waves shall obey thy will:
peace, be still.
whether the wrath of the storm-tossed sea
or demons or men or whatever it be,
no waters can swallow the ship where lies
the Master of ocean and earth and skies.
they all shall sweetly obey thy will:
peace, be still; peace, be still.
they all shall sweetly obey thy will:
peace, peace, be still.
mary ann baker, master, the tempest is raging.

i never used to like this song. well, i guess you could say i was indifferent to it. then in the mtc, a sister from one of the older districts (six whole weeks! we thought they knew everything. until that became us.) said she mistakenly chose that as their hymn on one of their first weeks in the mtc. and in russian, it's real, real hard. especially if you've been learning russian for fewer days than years that you've been alive. and so, i didn't really like it one bit. in fact, it annoyed me and i alittlebit hated it.

but then. then my indifference was shattered. you see, while in ukraine, megs and i (sister armknecht, back then.) exchanged notes. because, if you only know one thing about megan beth armknecht, you ought to know that she has a way with words. and that she's really good at words of affirmation. and that she's really good at loving. and she's really good at expressing inspiring and needed things by the means of beautiful words. and on the 10th of june, 2013, she wrote a note that she gave me a few weeks later at mission conference. and in the midst of it, she quoted the second verse of master, the tempest is raging.

she was weeks--practically days--shy of finishing her mission. i was training and in the process of being healed by the summer sun. and this note. it was different than most the others. because in it, among other things, she outlined an answer she received to a question she'd long been carrying. why does god let his children serve missions--especially in eastern europe? his daughters, especially. why does he send us there and allow for us to stay, fully knowing all that we will (and did) have to experience and the darkness we see, despite the goodness that can ultimately be found?

because it was a choice. it was our choice, just as much as eve chose to partake of the forbidden fruit. (see mba's phenomenal poems about eve here.) he lets us go, not in a letting go way, but in an allowing way. because we chose this. we chose this life--the tempests, billows, griefs, sad hearts, and terrors in order that we may know of the power jesus has to say: peace, be still. because that's what actually matters about this sea of galilee. understanding the power jesus has. so that we may come to understand that the waves and winds still know His voice who ruled them while he dwelt below. the voice of jesus.

(my favorite arrangements of this song here and here.

the first is one with vocals, the second is only instrumental.)

for the mysterious to become bright at last, we must first dig into that which is mysterious and let it become a part of us. and by looking into all things--we are made vulnerable, yes--but we are also given depth. understanding. wisdom. because we're all just trying to get to jesus. we're all coming to him. and. at the core of our beings is a yearning towards something grander than ourselves. a yearning to be again a part of that. a yearning to return to god.

but as a part of gaining that perspective and experience, the depths of [our] sad heart[s] are troubled. in anguish and grief for not only our own experience, but i'd say perhaps more frequently, the sorrows we see in the lives of others, we plead for him to waken and save.

and so we return to this sea of galilee. because this is where the Master of ocean, and earth, and skies first commanded the winds and waves to obey His will. but, do you remember? it was in the fourth watch of the night that he came. (the full story here.) which is to say, the final watch. after the apostles had already spent most of the night with the contrary winds. and, you see. this delay. the wait. it didn't mean jesus wasn't coming. it just meant he wasn't there yet. but that delay doesn't mean a denial. he still came to them. he still calmed the seas. he still consoled the sad hearts. a delay does not mean a denial, for god is always awake.

while i was serving with sister bull, we were once discussing this story of galilee and the story of peter walking on water. and she shared with me an insight quinny had shared with her:

when peter walked on water, he wasn't trying to experience a miracle. he was just trying to get to jesus.

because we're all just trying to get to jesus. to get past the skies of blackness and grief. (i've more to write about grief. coming soon [or not soon. no promises. writing does not come so easily as of late.] to a bloggity near you.) and then one day, we rest on the blissful shore. the blissful shores of galilee.



do you know what's found on the shores of galilee? the charming city of tiberias with a branch that looks out onto galilee. on another side, the valley of doves. and on another, a church to commemorate when jesus came to peter on the shore and said, feed my sheep. and there's also the citytown of capernaum--jesus's homeown. and my personal favorite: in magdala, a synagogue built recently that contains a domed area near the entrance with pillars all around--pillars engraved with the names of women from the new testament. the women! leading towards a chapel overflowing with natural light and a large fishing boat at the front, with golden wall-height icons of each of the twelve apostles lining the sides. which is to say, one of the most beautiful religious establishments i've ever been in. (what can i say? i'm a sucker for large windows and natural light.)

and, you see. this is why the photos i cherished most and share most from israel, are those taken on galilee. a phenomenon i didn't even consciously realize until meg pointed it out. but. there's this connection i have with galilee. something about this sea that i'm drawn to. that i could never really get enough of. because of my love of master, the tempest is raging. and. for these waters that stand as a remaining witness of the miracles that took place--the miracles that came in not looking for miracles. these waters sanctified by history. because. you don't need big places for big things to happen there.

тишь, мир, покой.

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